


always born a crime

by phylocalist



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: ALMOST being the key word, Alternate Universe - Mob, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Russian Mafia, katsuki yuuri leader of the biggest russian bratva and of my HEART, not a lot of mafia is involved except that yuri does almost die because of it, pls cut him some slack, this is a mafia au but it's like. mafia lite., yuri is trying his best but goddamn he's a teenager with no people skills
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-07-14 17:05:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16044812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phylocalist/pseuds/phylocalist
Summary: “It’s not like weneedthe money. This… isn’t really a legitimate business, if you hadn’t noticed.”Yuri blinks. Once, twice, and then it finally clicks. Ohhhhhhhhhh. Everything makes much more sense now.“So this is a front,” Yuri says, and it’s not really a question.-Sometimes, some places are more than solely what they seem. Sometimes, places that are more than what they seem can become important. Sometimes, places that have become important save your life.And, 100% of the time, teenagers just donotknow how to deal with crushes.





	always born a crime

**Author's Note:**

  * For [karmashiota](https://archiveofourown.org/users/karmashiota/gifts).



> me, whenever i start to write a fic: this'll be just a 5k one-shot! easy-breezy!  
> me, 11k later, staring at the fic finally done: done fucked up again
> 
> anyway! today one of the best people i ever got the honor of calling my friend was birthed into this world and i really wanted to write something for them. i couldn't come up with a whole new fic, sadly, but i hope this monstrosity makes up for it and that they like it. thank you for coming into my life and sticking around until now. that's a true feat to be recognized.
> 
> the m rating and "graphic depictions of violence" tag refers to solely one scene where stabbing is involved. this fic also includes semi-graphic descriptions of stitching open wounds and removing said stitches. please proceed with caution if it's something that might upset you!
> 
> for anyone curious: title comes from "my way home is through you" by my chemical romance. we all out here being proudly emo in 2018.

The bubblegum pops at the same time Yuri crosses the threshold of the convenience store. There’s a soft welcome from somewhere near the register that Yuri ignores as he briskly walks to one of the food aisles, loudly chewing his bubblegum all the way. His grandpa and him ran out of cooking oil so they need a replacement if they want to eat dinner, and _dedushka_ ’s birthday is only a couple of days away, so Yuri is looking for boxed cake mix to try and make a cake for him. Keyword being _try_ \- he doesn’t think he’ll be too successful.

He grabs a box of red velvet cake mix anyway, alongside the cooking oil. When he gets to the register, he finally looks up from his feet to sweep the store with a look. It’s always empty here; Yuri has only ever seen a maximum of five people at the store at the same time, counting the two clerks. It still somehow hasn’t gone out of business, but it’s not like Yuri knows anything about stores and how to run them, so maybe it’s not that serious.

“That will be 283₽, please,” says the person at the register - some dude with short black hair and big glasses. His eyes are too soft. Yuri doesn’t like it.

He sticks his hand into the front pocket of his jeans to look for some loose change when the sound of the door opening again startles him. He involuntarily looks back and finds three men in expensive-looking suits walking in through it. He scrunches up his nose. What could they want here?

“Yuuri!” One of them yells cheerily, a blonde one with an undercut.

Yuri immediately flinches, then schools his face back into a scowl. He’s never seen this dude before, and there are very few people in this neighborhood who know his name. Not one of them would ever call out to him in that tone.

The muscles in his back stiffen as he turns back to the clerk behind the register, who’s now giving a dirty look to the three men walking towards them. His eyes aren’t soft anymore, and that intrigues Yuri; they’re steel and imposing, which is actually a bit scary.

So with three strange men who apparently _know him_ walking towards him from behind, and one now-scary man in front of him, Yuri is a hundred fucking percent ready to bolt the fuck out of this convenience store and never come back, cake mix and cooking oil be damned. He can feel all of his muscles tense up now, stiff with fight-or-flight response.

Shoes scuff against the floor as the men behind him stop dead on their tracks. Yuri’s clutching his hand around the loose change in his pocket so tightly he can feel the metal of the coins cutting into his palm.

“You know we meet at _the back_ , Chris,” comes a voice from in front of him, but it’s so different from the soft, warm tone that always welcomes him that Yuri immediately looks up to make sure the same person is talking - and, yeah, that’s the same dude that’s always behind the register. Except his eyes are cold, a warning, and his smile is acidic. Yuri thinks this man could put him on his knees with words alone, and that’s no easy feat.

Nobody talks for a few seconds. His bubblegum pops the heavy silence.

“Sorry, Yuuri,” a different voice says - warm and slightly nervous. “You know how he is, we’ll be going now.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Yuri can see the two other men dragging the blonde by the shoulders towards the back of the store, watches them disappear behind an unmarked door. So they didn’t mean him. His curiosity piqued, Yuri looks up to the sales clerk, looking for a name tag. It’s right there in his chest and Yuri can’t believe he hadn’t seen it before.

_Yuuri_ , it reads.

All the tension and fight leaves him at once the moment he realizes the danger is no more, and his defenses come down for a split second. Before he can think of stopping himself, he snorts and blurts out: “Same name.”

The sales clerk, Yuuri, is expectedly surprised, though a bit more than he should’ve been. These are the first words, besides grunted thank-yous and affirmations, that Yuri has ever spoken in this store.

“Excuse me?” Sales clerk asks. His eyes are back to that soft state and they’re doe-like big with surprise. Yuri hates them, though he’s not sure he likes the steel-backed ones that much more either.

Yuri pops his bubblegum once more, giving himself a second to decide if he wants to stay and have this awkward, forced conversation his idiot self started, or just run away. The cooking oil is right there though, and he’s hungry. _Dedushka_ probably is too.

God damn it.

He pulls out two scrunched up 100₽ bills from his front pocket and a bunch of loose coins. He concentrates on counting them as he replies, so as to not look at the sales clerk in the eyes again.

“We have the same name. Mine’s spelled with й, though.” He wants to ask if the guy’s Russian and why did his parents spell his name so weirdly, but he bites his tongue. No need to prolong this conversation more than it needs to be.

The other Yuuri lights up like a christmas tree. It almost hurts Yuri’s eyes. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen someone look so happy and excited packaging groceries before. Sales clerk finishes putting the groceries into a plastic bag but doesn’t extend it towards Yuri, clearly wanting to keep the boy in the store a little bit longer. Yuri groans internally. He should’ve just ran away.

“Really?! That’s such a weird coincidence, to find someone with your same name!” Yuri doesn’t mention that the name is literally the Slavic equivalent of George and, therefore, there are actually _a lot_ of Yuris in Russia. “I’m Japanese, though, that’s why mine is romanized into two “u”s.”

Yuri doesn’t know what _romanized_ means, so he just stares at the name tag for a second, trying to see if he can piece the meaning together using context clues. He thinks maybe it’s an English thing. Yuri doesn’t know a lot of English, never bothered to learn it.

There’s really no reason to keep the conversation going, so Yuri extends a fist towards the other Yuuri, money bundled up inside it. “Cool,” he says, trying make it obvious how uninterested he is in the whole situation. “Here’s the money.”

“Oh.” The clerk flusters, like he’s just remembered himself and what he’s supposed to be doing. He puts an open palm under Yuri’s fist and Yuri lets the money drop down to it, quickly grabs the bag and guns it for the door. The other Yuuri is almost too stunned to say anything else, until Yuri is almost at the door and he yells: “Thank you for shopping with us! I hope I’ll see you again!”

Yuri doesn’t turn back, only pushes the door open by the handle and mumbles a _thank you_ under his breath, otherwise his grandfather would scold him because he “didn’t raise you like that”. Not like the clerk can hear him, anyway.

Making quick work of his walk, Yuri spits out the gum onto the side of the street. It’s lost all its flavor already and it’s gone hard. He _bleh_ s at it and pulls the hoodie snugger around his head. He needs to hurry or _dedushka_ will get mad. He’s probably mad already.

No need to mention the incident with the weird men on the corner store or how the sales clerk can, unexpectedly, be really fucking scary if he wants to. It’ll only upset his grandpa and Yuri can take care of himself.

Probably.

 

*

 

“Haven’t I told you we meet at _the back_?” Yuuri’s voice fills the room, followed by the sharp slam of the door behind him. He’s standing before it, his arms crossed over his chest and his cold eyes trained on the three men before him.

Phichit is the one who reacts first, clapping his hands together and bowing, a gesture he learnt from Yuuri. “I’m so sorry! You know how Chris is, he just wanted to say hi.”

He looks up to Yuuri, all pleading eyes and pouting lips. Yuuri sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, uncrossing his arms. He walks to the comfy couch they keep at the back of the room and lets himself fall down onto it. All in all, their meeting spot is pretty unorthodox for such a high-esteemed bratva: two couches, a foldable table always stuck to the wall and never actually in use and four chairs at random places of the room. There’s also three different safes hidden throughout the room, of which only Viktor and Yuuri know the exact locations of, and a hidden cabinet embedded into the wall that houses all of their weapons.

Phichit smiles and runs to Yuuri’s side, knowing he’s been pardoned. Chris does the same, except he doesn’t have the decency to look the least bit apologetic, only sits down on Yuuri’s other side and smiles charmingly at him.

“ _Mon chéri_ ,” Chis says and smacks a loud kiss in Yuuri’s cheek.

Yuuri smiles against his will because, really, what else would one expect of Chris?

“I don’t wanna be hard on you guys, but you know we don’t like you interacting with the customers,” Yuuri starts, looking at each of the three men in turn. Ben has pulled up one of the chairs and sat close to them on the couch, and Yuuri stares at him. “ _You’re_ supposed to be keeping these two in check. I trusted you, Ben.”

Ben doesn’t even look up from the briefcase he’s opened over his legs and is now going through. “You know I can’t deny them anything when they gang up on me.”

Yuuri rolls his eyes. His tone is cold, but his words hold no bite when he says, “Useless.”

“C’mooon, Yuuri. We’ve been good _most_ of the time,” Phichit complains. He lets his weight fall onto Yuuri’s side with a bright smile on his face and a spark in his eyes. Excitedly, he says, “And we bring good news!”

“Bad news,” Ben interjects.

Phichit looks over at him and then looks back at Yuuri. His smile never fades nor does his tone change. “Bad news!”

Yuuri can’t help but laugh at that. Phichit has been his best friend for over ten years and sometimes he’s really glad he was able to find someone like him in an otherwise so-unfriendly environment. He affectionately ruffles Phichit’s hair as thanks for his always cheery attitude that never fails to lift his spirits. Phichit leans into it like an affectionate puppy.

Chris whines on Yuuri’s other side. “Don’t neglect your other pet.”

Yuuri rolls his eyes but ruffles Chris’ hair as well. Chris purrs at the affection. If Phichit was an over-eager puppy, Chris is definitely a cold but attention-demanding fine cat.

“You know we don’t deal with prostitution, right?” Yuuri jokes. Chris’ eyes spark up at the mention, so Yuuri continues before Chris can say whatever filthy things just crossed his mind. “Besides, I only have one puppy.”

It works to distract Chris. His eyes turn questioning. “Makkachin?”

“Oh. Right. Two puppies, I guess.”

“Did he -?!”

“We’re here,” Ben interrupts Chris mid-sentence, his voice and stare cold and demanding. Chris immediately calms down. “To talk business.”

“Right,” Yuuri replies, remembering himself. He shrugs off both the boys plastered onto his sides and leans forward, his elbows on top of his knees, giving Ben all of his attention.

“So far, we’re in the greens regarding the money,” Ben starts, looking over the few papers he’s pulled out from the briefcase. “There’s been no police sniffing around or suspicions raised. We still might need to relocate after a couple of years, though. We might be safer on this neighborhood than we were on the previous, but we’re still at risk.”

Yuuri nods. This is information they all know, but it’s good to keep it in mind. He always tries to keep a distance from his customers and create a definite barrier between them and the business that goes on behind the scenes, so he can cleanly and expertly cut off all relationships when the time comes. There’s been that blonde kid lately, though, whose presence has been made known more and more in Yuuri’s mind. He mentally reprimands himself as soon as the kid pops up in his mind; he _can’t_ get attached, no matter how much the kid is silently screaming for help and protection.

“The only problem with this area, though…” Ben trails off, looking through the papers for something in specific.

“Is the gang wars,” Phichit finishes for him. He’s finally in business mode, his aura and stance completely different. It’s always been amazing to Yuuri, how much he can change in a matter of seconds.

“Right.” Ben nods.

“There’s been talks in social media about some gangs trying to fight others for territory, especially now that we’re here,” Phichit continues, his voice somber. “They wanna be close to the big fish.”

Yuuri sighs. That’s a risk they always have to take into consideration whenever they move. He didn’t think they would be acting on it this soon, though. He thought they had more time before they started being an inconvenience to the people in the neighborhood.

“They always want to be,” Yuuri mutters, his own voice turning somber as well.

“We can hold them off. A few more months, a year tops,” Chris offers, nonchalant. As if they aren’t talking about innocent people possibly losing their lives as a by-product of gang wars they have no say or weight in. Yuuri grimaces, but is thankful for the offer.

“Please do that.”

Chris looks back at him and winks, playful again. “If you order me to, I will.”

Yuuri’s eyes darken. “Keep the people of this neighborhood safe.” He sees Chris shiver slightly and feels a small spark of satisfaction, but he smacks it down. He stares at Ben and Phichit, who have stood up, for a few seconds each. “All of you.”

“Yes, Boss,” all three say in unison, in Russian.

It makes Yuuri blush, completely dropping his persona. He looks down at his feet, his cheeks burning. “Stop calling me that. It’s embarrassing,” he mutters.

“You _are_ our Boss, though,” Phichit says, to which Yuuri looks up. His eyes are conflicted.

“But Viktor,” Yuuri starts, but is immediately interrupted by three hard stares. Even Ben is looking down at him with eyes that say _you want to start up this discussion again?_

“You are Viktor’s boss,” Chris, ever helpful, supplies. He’s smirking, the asshole. “Which would make you the boss of our boss, therefore you’re the Big Boss.”

And because the world apparently hates him, that’s exactly the moment Viktor decides to show up into the room. The backdoor opens and in comes a large ball of curly brown fur that runs towards Yuuri, followed by its owner. Viktor’s eyes immediately brighten up as he hears the tail end of their conversation, and he smiles proudly.

“Yuuri, owning me? Yes, that’s right!” Viktor says, like it’s the best thing one could say of him.

“I said _boss_ , Vitya, not owner,” Chris replies, but he’s smirking, clearly amused.

Viktor scrunches up his nose. “Same thing.”

“Oh my god, just let me die,” Yuuri mutters into Makkachin’s fur, his face burning.

Nobody ever told him _this_ would be his life when he married the heir of Moscow’s biggest bratva. Stranger than fiction, indeed.

 

*

 

There are two new additions to the convenience store the next time Yuri crosses the entrance. One, there’s a new clerk arranging things on the shelves; young dude with an undercut and stony expression. Two, there’s music playing.

Yuri scrunches up his nose at the music, curious, trying to identify where he’s heard it before. Probably some radio station, one of those his grandpa always has on after 6pm when he sits down to read the newspaper with a cup of black coffee. That would be weird, though, seeing as all _dedushka_ ever listens to is old music that sounds like it could put a baby to sleep. Definitely not store-appropriate upbeat music.

“Oh! Welcome back, Yuri!” A familiar voice rings out from the cash register. Yuri almost bolts out of the store.

He’d completely forgotten he’d accidentally blurted out his name to the cashier last time he was here.

Yuri grits his teeth in an effort to keep quiet. There’s no need to make a scene, he’s just here for a bag of chips, some popcorn and a soda. He’s going to have a relaxing horror movie marathon with Mila and forget about that bunch of kids who keep picking on him over how long his hair’s gotten. He’s thrown a good few punches over the week. He’s also been sent to the principal’s office a good few times over the week.

He walks to the small aisle of chips and starts looking them over, gauging how much money he’s got on him and how fancy he’s feeling today. A pair of feet appear on his field of vision.

“Are you looking for anything in specific?”

When Yuri looks up towards the voice, of course, the cashier is standing there, all soft smiles and pudgy cheeks. He’s smiling shyly. Yuri thinks it would probably be in bad manners to puke all over this store’s floor.

“No,” Yuri grunts curtly. “Thanks,” he adds, because he’s got _manners_.

“Oh.” The other Yuuri seems to deflate and Yuri almost feels guilty. Almost.

“I just…” Yuri says before he can even think twice about it. He swallows, feeling the cashier’s eyes back on him. “I’m looking for some chips.”

“Oh!” Yuuri lights back up and smiles, turning back to look at the rows of chips on the shelf. “What kind? Salty, cheesy, sweet?”

“I… “ Yuri blinks. “I don’t know…? Are there really that many options when it comes to chips?”

The cashier laughs shyly and Yuri glares at him, because is he laughing at him? But the other Yuuri doesn’t look mocking or mean, his smile is warm and shy.

“Yeah, uh. There are _a lot_ of chip options out there.”

“Well, I…” Yuri scratches at his head, feeling trapped by his own stupidity. “I guess cheesy? Or salty?"

The other Yuuri cocks his head, pensive for a moment, and then turns around to walk all the way to the end of the aisle, coming back with two different bags of chips that Yuri has never heard of. The packaging looks bougie.

“I think you would like these two! They from a small manufacturer here in Moscow and not that well-known, but they taste _amazing_ ,” the cashier assures with a smile.

“Uh.” Yuri eyes them suspiciously, thinking of the three lonely crumpled 100₽ bills on his pocket. He’s supposed to also bring back soda. “How much are they?”

“Hmm,” Yuuri hums, looking at the bags. They have little stickers with the prices on the front, but from this distance Yuri can’t make out exactly how much they are. They are at least 3 digits, though. As Yuri keeps looking, the cashier very slowly and methodically peels off the price stickers off the bags and then extends them towards Yuri. “Consider them on the house!”

“I,” Yuri stutters. “I can’t take them for free.”

“Yes, you can,” The other Yuuri says, his smile never faltering.

“No, I can’t,” Yuri insists, glaring at him. He may be cheap but ain’t a charity case.

“It’s ok,” Yuuri says and suddenly walks to right in front of Yuri, shoves the bags into Yuri’s hands and Yuri catches them on reflex before they fall to the floor. “You can.”

Stunned, Yuri looks down at the bags of chips in his hands as the other Yuuri walks away, possibly back to the cash register, without so much as a look behind himself. Nobody had ever been this insisting with him and actually _won_. He’s somehow furious.

“What the fuck,” he whispers with sentiment to the bags of chips. “What the _fuck._ ”

When he looks up, the new clerk with the stony face is standing at the end of the hallway, looking at him. There’s a slight upturning to his mouth that betrays a smirk. Yuri blushes suddenly and furiously.

“What the _fuck_ ,” he says out loud this time, not caring whether the cashier heard him or not, and storms out of the store in a panic with what’s left of his dignity and his face burning with embarrassment.

Fuck the soda. Fuck the chips. Fuck this store.

There’s no way he’s coming back.

 

*

 

Five minutes later, Yuri finds himself in front of the store’s door again, Mila in tow.

“Yuri, where is the soda?” Mila had asked as soon as Yuri had crossed the door to his room with only two bougie bags of chips in his hands. She’d picked one of them up and examined them closely. “Ohh, I’ve seen these around! But they’re always too expensive for me to buy them, did you spend all of your money on them?” She asked accusingly.

In unwilling grunts, Yuri had had to explain to her the whole situation and Mila had laughed delightly, the asshole, as Yuri’s face burned up and up in embarrassment at the fresh memory. After getting a good laugh out of the story, Mila had insisted on coming back, arguing that they couldn’t have chips but no soda to drink them with. Yuri had snapped and told her to go to the store herself and get them, but he knew that she didn’t even know where the store was.

So, complaining in grunts under his breath and with a blush staining red high on his cheeks, Yuri pushes the door to enter the store and watches as Mila passes him by and goes straight to the refrigerators on the back of the store that keep the beverages cool.

“You still have the 300₽, right?” Mila asks, walking back and forth in front of the wall of refrigerators. Yuri grunts from behind her, and she apparently takes it as a positive. She takes out two 500ml bottles of her favorite soda and presents them proudly to Yuri, beaming. “Then we can afford these! Thank god, I haven’t had them in so long.”

Yuri shrugs, feigning disinterest, but he is actually pretty excited to be able to afford them too. It’s not _his_ favorite soda, but it’s pretty damn good and Mila loves it, so he guesses it’s okay.

As they walk to the cash register together, Yuri can feel the dread growing larger and larger at having to face the other Yuuri again after doing _that_ . His cheeks are starting to burn again and he lightly touches his hands to them, frowning and trying to mentally will them into _not_ blushing. When they get to the counter, though, there is no one behind it. Yuri looks around and notices the door to the back slightly ajar, which is definitely not how it commonly is.

To his horror, though, when Mila knocks on the counter to grab the attention of the shopkeeper so he comes and rings their sodas up, the stony-faced, undercut clerk from before is who comes instead, appears out of somewhere in the store and moves to the back of the counter, behind the register.

Undercut clerk rings their sodas up and says, in a monotone that is somehow more fitting of him than anything Yuri could ever thought his voice was like, “158₽, please.”

After a beat passes and they all stand in awkward silence, Mila nudges Yuri with her elbow and whispers between her teeth to him, “you have the money, Yura.”

Yuri snaps. Right. He quickly pushes his hand onto the front pocket of his jeans and pulls out the only three bills he’s carrying, picking two out and handing them over to Undercut.

“Thanks,” the clerk says in the same monotone and looks up at Yuri to hand him the bag with the sodas at the exact same moment Yuri is examining his hairstyle because he’s man enough to admit it looks kinda cool. This makes their eyes meet, though, and Yuri instantly freezes and blushes as he sees the exact moment Undercut recognizes him and the minute changes in his expression denote an _oh_ almost as loud as if he’d actually said it.

In a panic, _again_ , like the only way his brain can function inside this store is in a perpetual fight-or-flight mode, he snatches the plastic bag out of Undercut’s hands and bolts out of the store in quick, long strides.

“Wait, Yura!” he hears Mila say behind him, but nope, he ain’t turning back, he’s getting the fuck out of there _now_.

Once he’s past the doors and out on the sidewalk, Yuri bends over himself to rest his hands on his knees and fucking _breathe._  It feels like he hasn’t been able to do that since that first encounter with the other Yuuri.

He pays no mind to the sound of the doors opening behind him and keeps breathing slowly as Mila makes his way to him.

“Are you okay?” She asks once she’s in front of him and Yuri looks up. She’s genuinely worried, but he can tell she’s holding back her laughter. Fucker.

“Yeah, whatever.” Yuri unfolds and stands up straight, stretches for good measure and mentally slaps himself. _Snap out of it, idiot._ “Let’s just go back and actually start that movie marathon. I desperately need it.”

He starts walking back to his house without looking back and, as expected, ignores her as Mila has a good laugh about the whole situation.

Whatever. He’ll get her back. He’ll suddenly scare her in the middle of that one movie she hates and she’ll shit her pants out of fear and it’ll be great.

Revenge is sweet.

 

*

 

Yuuri’s head pops out of the door that leads to the backroom and Otabek watches him scan the store, frowning when he finds no one else but him in there.

“There was a lot of noise just then. Was someone else here?” Yuuri asks, looking back at Otabek. Otabek can see the cogs turning in his mind, knows he’s already devising a plan in case there is any trouble with another bratva.

“Yeah,” he says. “Just that blonde kid and his friend. No one else,” Otabek reassures him.

“Oh.” Yuuri visibly relaxes as soon as he hears Otabek’s response and even smiles slightly. “Just Yuri, I see. He _is_ very loud.” His expression is fond when he laughs.

Otabek _hmm_ s in response, not knowing what to reply. Yuuri’s head pops back behind the door after that and he’s left alone once again.

He crouches down to look at the iPod connected to the store’s sound system and turns the volume up.

So he’s called Yuri.

 

*

 

Peace can only last for so long, Yuuri has learnt over the years. So when Phichit shows up at the store, face grim and mouth corners upturned, he knows.

As soon as the door is closed behind them, Yuuri asks, without even turning back to face Phichit, “have people gotten hurt?”

He hears Phichit sigh and clutches the doorknob tightly in his hand. “Yes. Only three so far, but it’s starting now.”

In an outburst, Yuuri punches at the door with a closed fist and yells, “Fuck!”

“It’s not your fault, Yuuri, you know this,” Phichit hurries to say in a soft tone, trying to reassure Yuuri. He knows better than to get close right now, though, so he stays put in the sofa. “The Nikiforov Bratva has _never_ hurt an innocent person ever since Yakov was in charge. You didn’t do this.”

And Yuuri knows. It’s been a few years now, he’s experienced this countless time, a cycle of setting up base in a different city of Russia and creating petty gang fights for the mere reason of _being_ there. Having power also means carrying it around and creating danger for everyone around you, because people will do whatever it takes to snatch that power for themselves. Yuuri _knows this_ , and that’s why every time it hurts even more.

“If _we_ weren’t here, this wouldn’t be happening, Phichit,” Yuuri says, finally turning around and resting against the closed door. He’s repeating himself and he knows it. They have this conversation every few months, almost like a scripted scene. “We may not have directly hurt those people, but we _definitely_ were the indirect cause for it.”

Phichit simply sighs, because they both know Yuuri is right.

The silence stretches around them for a few minutes and then Phichit finally gets up from the couch, walks until he’s standing in front of Yuuri and gently places one of his hands on Yuuri’s shoulder. His eyes are soft and regretful, but his expression is serious. Yuuri knows he hates being the bearer of bad news and always appreciates the effort he makes in talking to Yuuri with nothing but honesty and compassion.

“You know it’s only going to get worse from here on out. We’ve seen it before,” Phichit starts and Yuuri’s shoulders tense. He’s right but having it said out loud makes it feel more real somehow. “More people are going to get hurt unless you make a decision: fight back or leave and start again. Those are you only options.”

He gives a reassuring squeeze to Yuuri’s shoulder and, when Yuuri locks eyes with him, his eyes are apologetic. Yuuri tries to smile for him but it doesn’t come out right, too wobbly at the edges, and he quickly places a hand on top of Phichit’s as a form of thanks.

“I’ll talk with Vitya,” Yuuri says. “You know I can’t make decisions for the bratva without consulting him.”

That actually startles a laugh out of Phichit and his expression turns a little less grim and guilty. “You know he would let you do _anything_ with the bratva. He would probably let you do anything at all, period.”

Yuuri rolls his eyes, but he blushes slightly because he can’t really deny that.

Phichit gives one last pat to Yuuri’s shoulder and then turns to pick up his briefcase from the couch. As he’s walking to the back door that leads out to the street, he stops with his back turned to Yuuri and says, in a quiet voice, like he’s afraid of being heard, “You like this place, right? You don’t want to move this time.”

Yuuri sighs and smiles at himself because, really, when did he become so transparent?

“Maybe…” he starts, contemplative. “It’s time to start fighting back instead of running.”

“Yeah,” Phichit says, turning back and gifting a smile to Yuuri. He hesitates in front of the door, his expression serious again but hopeful, this time. “We’ll be ready as soon as you announce the decision, whatever it is, okay? We’ll follow you to the end of this earth and back.”

Yuuri smiles, grateful, and nods. “I know.”

Being a leader is a role he didn’t think he was suited for, the weight of his actions and decisions having so much effect over so many lives crushing him for the first couple of months, but he’s learned to treasure that trust instead. He holds it close to his heart now, knows it’s not something to be toyed with, and is eternally grateful for it. His friends, his _family_ , trust and believe in him and he’s not going to disappoint them, not anymore.

Phichit nods back, says “see you later,” and the door closes behind him.

Yuuri stares at the door for a few seconds in silence and nods to himself, determined.

Time to have a talk with Vitya.

 

*

 

“Hey, you liked these, right?” Yuuri asks, somehow materializing a bag of those bougie chips from under the counter and just shoving it into Yuri’s bag before he can even reply.

Yes, he’d liked them. Motherfucker had gotten him addicted to them and now he has to save up his money to be able to afford a bag every other week. He doesn’t say this to him, though, just watches in stunned silence as Yuuri hands him the plastic bag with the things he actually paid for _and_ the snuck-in bougie chips, plus his change back.

For what feels like hours but is merely seconds in reality, Yuri fights inside his mind whether to actually reply to the question and risk starting a conversation about his likes and dislikes with the cashier, because he _knows_ Yuuri would ask further, or just accept his faith and go.

With a resigned grunt, Yuri grabs the bag without a peep and takes his change back.

And then, apparently, his brain thinks it’s a great time to turn on its self-destruct mode.

“You know, I’m not a charity case.” It comes out ragged and sharp around the edges, because the only way he knows how to hurt is to be sharp and dangerous to the touch. He’s looking at his feet and clutching his fists tight as he chokes out, “I may be poor but that doesn’t mean you have to give me things for free because you pity me. That’s disgusting.”

A beat passes and Yuri is just standing there, because what the fuck do you do after _that_? There’s no way to salvage this and Yuuri isn’t saying anything, because of course he wouldn’t, how else would someone like him, soft and honest and kind, react to being called disgusting? He’s probably too kind to even say anything to Yuri back and he will keep giving him the same warm smile every time Yuri comes back to store and Yuri will keep hurting himself on the edge of his own stupidity.

But then, a soft “ _Oh_ ,” reaches Yuri’s ears.

His eyes snap back up so fast he almost hurts his neck from the whiplash and Yuuri’s face is there, wracked with guilt. Something twists inside Yuri’s chest and ties his stomach into knots at the pain he can see written across Yuuri’s face. _Fuck_. He’s the worst person on this planet and he has proven it time and time again.

“I didn’t…” Yuuri starts, wrangling his hands in an anxious gesture Yuri has seen him do constantly. It looks like his mind is going a thousand miles per hour and Yuri gulps. “I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean for it to come off that way,” he continues, looking straight into Yuri’s eyes, honesty and regret pooling in his. Yuri’s fists tighten. _No_. “I really just wanted to give you some snacks because it looked like you liked them and it’s…” Yuuri signs and he deflates, an almost self-deprecating smile on his face, like he’s finally giving up on something. “It’s not like we _need_ the money. This… isn’t really a legitimate business, if you hadn’t noticed.”

Yuri blinks. Once, twice, and then it finally clicks. Ohhhhhhhhhh. Everything makes much more sense now.

“So this is a front,” Yuri says, and it’s not really a question.

Yuuri looks around the store, as if paranoid that someone from the police force will jump out of one of the store’s shelves or something. “Well, yes, but… it’s not safe for you to say that.”

Yuri rolls his eyes and he laughs, but it’s not a good laugh, leaves a metallic taste behind on his tongue. “It’s not safe for me to _exist_ , if you hadn’t noticed.”

That catches Yuuri’s attention, if his furrowed brow and steel-backed eyes are anything to go by. “What do you mean?”

This time it actually drags out a full-fledged laughter out of Yuri, bitter and incredulos. He even has to wipe tears from the corners of his eyes.

“Man. Are you seriously asking that?” He laughs again in between phrases, because he can’t help it. He motions at himself with his one free hand. “I’m literally the definition of everything kids in high school love to destroy. Of what _Russia_ loves to destroy. Look like this, _be_ like this, and you have a guaranteed beating at least once a week.”

“I… admit I hadn’t thought of that,” Yuuri says, voice back to that soft tone, almost like he’s only thinking out loud. His eyes are apologetic now and if he’s actually going to apologize for what happens, like he’s somehow at fault that Yuri is everything the world hates, Yuri is just going to get out and never come back because he isn’t about to stand that shit.

“Well, now you know,” Yuri replies, his voice acidic and ironic.

This time it happens right before his eyes and Yuri gets to watch as Yuuri’s eyes go from soft to determined to steel-backed to outright dangerous in its strength. It draws a shiver out of him, but he tries to suppress it as best as he can. No wonder this dude is into some illegal shit.

“We can help,” Yuuri says. It’s not a question.

Yuri blinks. “What?”

“We can _help_ ,” Yuuri repeats, his voice firmer this time. Like he’s already made the choice and Yuri gets no say in it. “If there are people threatening your safety, we can help. We can _protect_ you.” He seems to think of something and grimaces before continuing, “Not… officially, mind you. That would just make things more dangerous for you. But, completely off the records, we can send people to protect you of any harm that others may do to you.”

Yuri narrows his eyes. It comes out sharper than he means to when he asks, “Why would you?”

Yuuri smiles and he’s softer, a mafia boss no longer. “Because you’re a good kid, Yuri. You don’t deserve that kind of violence when you’re doing literally nothing wrong. And if I can help the people of this neighborhood to stop getting hurt, I will do my best to make it happen.”

_You don’t know me_ , Yuri doesn’t say. _You don’t know if I’m doing something wrong or not. You don’t know if I’m hurting people myself._

“I need to go,” he barks out instead. He breaks eye contact and mumbles, “ _Dedushka_ is waiting for me.”

“Yeah, it’s getting late.” Yuuri glances at the darkening sky outside through the store windows. “Have a safe trip home and… see you again, ok?” He asks, like Yuri has any choice.

Through gritted teeth and almost immediately feeling the regret, Yuri replies, “See you again.”

When the store’s doors close behind him, Yuri takes a deep breath in. He concentrates on the sensation of the air flowing in and out of his lungs to ward off the crushing weight of regret that always accompanies vulnerability.

_This time, though, maybe it wasn’t so bad_ , he thinks. _Maybe it may even bring something positive into my life._

He stares at the sky in silence for a minute and then starts jogging back to his house.

_Nah. Can’t get my hopes up. I’ve learnt that lesson many times now._

 

*

 

“We’re going to fight back,” Yuuri says, his voice firm and allowing no place for questioning. Viktor, at his side, nods and wraps a hand around his waist.

Four of the five people gathered around the table nod in unison. His three more trusted underlings, Phichit, Chris and Ben, and their favorite and best assassin, Sara, all nod instantly. Otabek, who has just now been promoted and allowed into general meetings, does not. His face betrays nothing, but Yuuri catches the tic of his right hand.

“Otabek?” He calls out, keeping his voice as non-confrontational as possible. He doesn’t want to scare the kid in his first meeting. “Is there anything you want to say? You know I won’t mind.”

“Sorry, boss,” Otabek says, and even in his monotone Yuuri can tell that he means it. “I just… won’t this make things more dangerous? Won’t this cause more gang fights?”

Yuuri smiles in understanding. He really made the right decision when he decided to recruit Otabek.

“It will,” Viktor answers. “It will make things more dangerous in the short term, but in the long run it’ll be safer. And we’re all here to create a plan that will minimize said danger for the people of this city. The last thing we want are casualties of innocent lives.”

Otabek’s eyes darken, determined, and in unison, the bratva’s underlings all say, “yes, boss!”

Viktor breaks the heavy atmosphere with a hearty laugh. “ _Wow!_ Did you all practice that? That was perfect!”

All four of their underlings look at each other sheepishly, but Sara is the one that says, “we kinda did.”

Yuuri shakes his head in disbelief as he pulls out a chair from the table, and thanks the Gods once more that he has found a family in the best kind of people.

 

*

 

It’s late when Yuri jogs back to his house from Mila’s. They’d been going over calculus homework together and Yuri had gotten stuck on a particular problem, which had made their whole session run late. Now it’s almost 10pm, the sun is fully hidden under the horizon and Yuri’s neck is starting to hurt from how often he thinks he hears something, footsteps or a banging sound or a jingle, and has to turn to look behind himself to make sure no one is coming to get him.

As much as Mila would like to disagree, he’s not stupid. He never stays out this late because he knows the crime rate in their neighborhood has recently been at an all-time high. He watches the news, alright? Even if only because _dedushka_ insists on watching them every day at 6 o’clock in the evening and Yuri has to listen as they detail the new number of bodies found dead in a ditch so far and how many people have been recently put in the hospital thanks to what’s speculated to be gang fights.

They’ve been escalating over the last few months, though, the numbers at an all-time high. A part of Yuri’s brain reminds him of Yuuri’s promise, tells him that he’ll probably be fine because he’s being taken care of. Yuri squishes that voice the fuck out. He’s cautious and can take care of himself. He _has_ to be. _Dedushka_ can’t be left all alone.

But when it happens, there are none of the warning sings Yuri was ready to identify. There no quickening footsteps, no suspicious figure following him, no hooded person coming out of an alley and dragging him in. There is none of it.

There is just a figure that materializes from the shadows in between the street lamps and then there is a knife buried to the hilt in his stomach. There is no in between, no warning. Just hurt and blood.

Yuri coughs, grabbing at the hilt of the knife in his stomach, and he can feel a metallic taste filling his mouth. Blood. That’s not a good sign.

Adrenaline running through his veins, Yuri delivers a powerful kick to the stomach area of whoever just stabbed him. They huff out a breath and bend backwards, effectively letting go of the knife Yuri is still holding inside himself. The figure flashes a smirk, stark white teeth glowing in the darkness of the streets of Moscow.

“So you know how to fight back, kitty?” A voice comes from the darkness and it’s raspy and disgusting. “I didn’t think you could, given they gave you two bodyguards.”

Yuri doesn’t say anything back, mind racing a thousand miles per second. If he pulls out the blade, he might make the bleeding worse. A severe wound to the stomach is one of the slowest ways to die so he has time to run for help. The switchblade _dedushka_ entrusted him with is still sitting on the back of his top drawer, useless when most needed. Yuri knows how to kick and how to fight back, has learned how to amplify the small amount of strength he has to pin someone to the ground, eyes bruised and mouth bloody, but he doesn’t know how to do all that _with a knife in his stomach_.

He’s still doubled over, hands over the hilt of the blade, his stomach screaming at him with pain and sweat beads starting to appear on his forehead. The adrenaline will only last so long. If he wants to get away, he has to do something _now_.

“Why are you so special to them?” Creepy dude continues his spiel, but a glint in the darkness catches Yuri’s attention. _Fuck._ He’s got another knife. “We checked your records. You’re no one. You’re in no way connected to the Nikiforovs, and yet you’re important enough to be assigned two of their most capable assassins as bodyguards.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Yuri spits out. If he keeps the guy talking, he can stall. Stalling is good, gives him time to formulate a plan to escape.

“Stop faking, kid,” the dude says and Yuri can see the glint of the blade’s reflection getting closer. He takes a step back reflexively. “Either way, you’re going down. It’s not the first time I’ll take an innocent life and it certainly won’t be the last.”

There’s a sudden flash of light and Yuri tries to dodge, but he’s just a bit too late, side steps just enough for the blade to catch his hoodie and cut the side of his shoulder. It burns and his first instinct is so cover the wound with his hand to stop the bleeding, but he knows it’s superficial and unimportant compared to the one in his stomach. He can’t let the douche grab the other knife from him.

In the second that the dude recoils from the attack, Yuri manages to kick with his leg at the crotch area and the dude doubles over, grunting in pain. Seizing his opportunity and making the best of his flexibility, Yuri swings his leg towards the doubled-over dude and hits him straight in the temple with the heel of his boots, sending the dude tumbling to the side as he yells in pain.

“You motherfucker!” He yells and Yuri watches as he tries to stand up but falls back to his knees, swearing again and grabbing at his temples.

The knife lays somewhere on the ground and Yuri kicks at the place he thinks he saw the glint of the blade away from the dude’s grasp before he takes off running, sweat beads running down his temples and both of his hands pressing down on the blade buried in his stomach. There is very little blood seeping through his hands, but it feels searing hot as it drips down his fingers and onto the asphalt as he runs away.

His body starts running on autopilot and sooner than he thought, Yuri finds himself pounding on the door to Yuuri’s convenience store. It’s closed now but Yuri knows they’ve barely just closed and there is either Yuuri in the backroom or Undercut fixing up the shelves of the store. His breathing keeps getting more labored and he can feel the adrenaline draining from his body as more blood seeps through the wound. Yuri rests his head against the glass of the door, suddenly lightheaded, and his eyes fixate on the hand still covering his stomach and where the hilt of the knife protrudes out from his body. Time seems to slow down as Yuri breathes heavy through his mouth, tastes metal in his tongue and watches mesmerized as the blood drips down his fingers and to the ground.

“Someone…” Yuri gets out, but it’s weak and pathetic and he hates it. He tries pounding on the door once more, but there is no strength left in him, his head spinning and his vision swimming. “Please help,” he manages to croak out, his breath fogging up the crystal of the door, but he knows it’s useless.

There is no one here. No one is coming to save him. He shouldn’t have trusted, shouldn’t have hoped that Yuuri would actually help him. Here is his proof that he’s nothing worth saving after all. The fucker with the knife is going to catch up to him soon and this will be his end. He will be nothing more than another number in the count of bodies, nothing more than an anonymous victim. Nothing.

The door opens and Yuri falls forward onto the arms of someone.

“Yuri?! What happened? Are you okay?!” It’s Yuuri’s voice, concerned and panicked, Yuri can recognize it now, but it sounds far away and unreal. When he yells, Yuri scrunches his eyes closed because the sound somehow makes everything hurt more. It’s his Mafia Boss voice and that should scare Yuri, but it’s somehow the most comforting thing he’s heard all day. “Otabek! I need you here, _now_!”

Yuri feels himself get passed around to be held up by another set of arms, bulkier and more muscular, but he can’t find the strength in himself to say anything about it. He just lays there, head resting against whoever’s collarbone, panting and willing himself to stay conscious.

“He’s got a stab wound to the stomach. You have to remove the knife,” Yuri instructs in rapid-fire and mechanical sentences. “There is a small wound on his shoulder as well, but it’s not too deep. Make sure he’s stable from the stomach wound first.” And then his voice darkens, dangerous and sharp enough to cut through steel, “I’ll go look for the motherfucker that did this to him.”

Yuri can feel the person holding him nod and when they speak, their voice makes their chest rumble. “Understood. I’ll call for backup.”

It takes him a few seconds, but Yuri finally recognizes the voice as Undercut Clerk and he has half a mind to blush as he remembers the few, extremely embarrassing, encounters they’ve had so far. Because, of course, that’s more important than the knife buried in his stomach.

The next few minutes are a blur, but Yuri somehow gets carried—princess-style, which does nothing to lower his embarrassment—into the room behind the counter and laid down onto a couch. He tries to open his eyes but it takes too much effort to blink them open, so he just lays down and tries to breathe through his nose instead. That he can do.

Time feels somehow eternal and non-existent at the same time as Yuri lays on the couch and absentmindedly listens to Undercut—apparently named Otabek, his brain makes the connection—prance around the room, making calls with a stern monotone and opening cabinets and drawers as if he’s looking for something. Yuri doesn’t have the strength to care about what’s going on, can barely concentrate on keeping awake and mildly aware of his surroundings, the burning sensation of the open wound definitely helping. He doesn’t think he should let himself fall unconscious.

After what feels like hours but a mere second at the same time, Undercut kneels down next to him on the couch and gently takes Yuri’s hand away from the hilt of the knife. Yuri takes a deep breath in, knowing exactly what’s coming and dreading it already.

“I need to take out the knife,” Undercut Otabek says and even though his voice doesn’t lose its monotone, there is something in the way he way he says the words and the way his eyebrows draw closer together that makes Yuri think he’s apologetic. “I’ll try to make it quick, but it’s going to hurt.”

“I know,” Yuri croaks out. He laughs as he says, “like a band-aid, right?”

Yuri cracks open one eye just in time to watch one of the corners of Otabek’s mouth quirk up in a smirk.

“Just like a band-aid,” he says and then, without warning, pulls the knife out.

Yuri screams, or so he thinks. There is a pained scream that resonates through the room as the knife slices his muscles and skin on the way out, but he’s not aware if it’s coming from him because all he can feel is the searing pain of the open wound in his stomach. He starts panting and sweating again after the initial sharp pain passes and he can feel his pulse on the back of his eyes and his temples. The burning expands from his stomach to the rest of his body in waves until it reaches the tips of his toes and hands, which start compulsively closing and opening.

“I’m sorry,” Yuri hears Otabek’s voice, can barely make out the words through the pain. Something wet and cool rests on his forehead and Yuri realizes it’s a wet towel. He internally thanks Otabek. “I have to stitch this closed now, which won’t be great for you. But I’ll try to be gentle.”

_You’ve been nothing but gentle_ , Yuri’s brain provides but he still has enough of a brain-to-mouth filter left to stop himself from saying it out loud.

The stitches don’t hurt nearly as much as he thought they would. Otabek had applied something to the wound before he started stitching it close which Yuri suspects was some kind of numbing gel or something, because there isn’t a lot of pain but he can very clearly feel as the needle goes through his skin and the thread is pulled taut, which is fucking weird.

Otabek is done in less time thank Yuri thought it would take. He wraps a bandage around Yuri’s torso and then gets up to wash his tools and hands on what Yuri supposes is the bathroom. When he comes back and stands awkwardly in the middle of the room, Yuri’s stare trained on him, he looks somewhat flustered and at a loss. Yuri giggles. Finally, the roles are reversed.

“Where did you learn that?” Yuri asks, which seems to snap Otabek out of his awkward state and gets him walking around the room again, putting things back where they seemingly belong.

“I have medical training,” Otabek replies after he’s done. He stops for a moment in the middle of the room, and then seems to decide on pulling a chair from the nearby table and sitting down close to the couch Yuri is laying on. “My parents taught me some first aid as a kid and then I asked the head doctor at the bratva to teach me more.”

Bratva. Right. For a moment Yuri had forgotten that this was all happening because of the mafia.

“You have a _head doctor_ at the bratva?” Yuri asks, slightly incredulous.

“Well,” Otabek says and then a corner of his mouth upturns in what Yuri has come to recognize as his smirk. “We kind of get hurt a lot and not every doctor will treat members of the bratva. So, we kinda had to get our own.”

“Huh,” Yuri says, cocking his head. “I guess that makes sense.”

A beat passes in silence as Yuri stares at the ceiling in hopes that a conversation topic will materialize out of thin air, but nothing comes to him. After a few more seconds in silence, he gives up and sighs.

“Can I fall asleep now?” He asks, eyes on ceiling.

“Yeah, you should be fine now. Do you want some painkillers?”

Yuri assesses himself and decides that whatever numbing shit Otabek had used had worked way too well. “Nah, not right now. When I wake up, though, maybe.”

“Alright,” Otabek agrees. Yuri starts to drift off to sleep almost as soon as he gets the permission, but Otabek’s soft, quiet voice makes its way into his ears just before he falls asleep and smiles as he hears, “I’ll stay here to take care of you”

 

*

 

The next morning is very confusing, to say the least. Yuri wakes up way too early thanks to the pain and practically screams when he tries to sit up on the couch. He falls back down, panting and head swimming from the pain.

The scream seems to have alerted people, though, as Yuuri comes running into the room with a worried look.

“Yuri! Are you okay? What hurts?!” Yuuri asks in a rush, an accent Yuri hadn’t noticed before coming through as he almost garbles his words together.

He’s hovering over Yuri on the couch, hands reaching out for him and then retracting just as quickly, like he’s afraid to touch him. It startles a laugh out of Yuri, which creates more pain, which drags a loud “ _Fuck_ ,” from him.

“Everything,” Yuri croaks out, voice sleep-raspy. “Fucking everything hurts. I would appreciate those painkillers I was promised last night.”

“Right.” Yuri nods, springing into action immediately. Seconds later, he’s crouching next to Yuri on the couch and grimacing. “This won’t be nice, but you need to sit up to take the pills.”

“Fuck!” Yuri yells again, because it’s the only word that encompasses his whole mood right now. He takes a deep breath in and says, “Let’s get it over with, then.”

It hurts like a bitch to sit up, but between the both of them, they manage to get Yuri’s upper half vertical and resting against the back of the couch. He’s panting by the end of it, trying to breath though the worst of the pain.

As soon as his head stops spinning from the pain, Yuri makes grabby hands at the pills Yuuri had placed on the table in the middle of the room. “I _really_ need those now.”

“Okay, okay,” Yuuri obliges, taking the small bunch of pills and dumping them on Yuri’s hand, who wastes no time in shoving them all into his mouth and downing them with a gulp of the water in the glass Yuuri offered him.

As he waits for the painkillers to take effect, Yuri finally takes a look around the room. He couldn’t see much of it last night, with him being halfway unconscious and whatnot, but now in the light of day and without a knife in his gut he can finally take it all in. It’s definitely _not_ what he expected a bratva’s meeting room to be, but in reality he had never thought of what a bratva’s _anything_ could be like.

If anything, there is one thing that sticks out to Yuri for its absence.

“Where’s Otabek?” He asks, brow furrowed.

Yuuri looks up from whatever papers he was going through at the table and smiles fondly. “I sent him home to sleep when I got here this morning because he hadn’t slept a wink. He said he couldn’t have fallen asleep while you were hurt and unconscious.” He suddenly laughs and his eyes shine, like he’s been let in onto a secret. “It’s actually the first time he ever fought me on something. He wouldn’t budge, so I had to pull out the _it’s an order_ line.” Yuuri rolls his eyes and blushes slightly.

“Oh,” Yuri lets out, surprised. He’s blushing slightly too, now. “He didn’t want to leave?”

Yuuri smirks knowingly. Yuri doesn’t like that.

“Yeah, he wanted to stay until you were awake. Said he had to ‘take care of you’.”

“Oh,” Yuri repeats, gaze cast down.

There’s a heat across his face and up to his ears and he knows it’s not from pain this time.

 

*

 

He comes back to the store a week later and Yuuri is at the front, supposedly manning the cash register but he’s just reading a magazine on figure skating. Yuri squints at it as he approaches. It’s an old magazine and there’s someone young on the cover with long, flowy silver hair. He recognizes the figure as a famous figure skater from a decade ago, but no name comes to mind.

“Um,” Yuri says when he’s stopped in front of the counter and Yuuri hasn’t even looked up from his magazine.

The sound finally makes him snap out of it and he looks up to Yuri, surprised. He smiles sheepishly. “Oh! Sorry, didn’t notice you!”

Yuri rolls his eyes because _yeah, I noticed_. He takes out his hands from the front pocket of his hoodie and points to his torso. “I’m here because of the…” he trails off, making vague motions around his stomach with his hands, knowing Yuuri will get what he means.

“Ah, yeah,” Yuuri says and smiles. “You can go ahead to the back, Otabek has been there the whole day prepping.”

The comment makes Yuri blush. There really wasn’t any need to say that to him. “Uh, yeah, sure.”

He walks behind the counter and past Yuuri—who is absorbed once more in his magazine—to the back door. He opens it slowly, looking around the room before entering. When his gaze finally lands on Otabek’s form hunched over the table, he takes a step inside and closes the door behind him, the noise alerting Otabek and making him turn towards the source.

When Otabek’s eyes land on Yuri, he swears he can see them light up and the corners of his mouth perk up in what he’s classified as “Otabek’s soft smile.” His chest tightens.

“Hey,” Yuri says, still resting against the door and unwilling to take a step in, closer to Otabek.

“Hey,” Otabek says back. He nods towards the couch and his expression softens the littlest bit, apologetic. “Time to get those stitches out.”

“Oof, yeah.” Yuri pushes himself away from the door and starts walking towards the couch. In a sardonic voice, he says, “Just what I’ve been waiting for!”

Otabek actually laughs this time, a soft sound that Yuri probably wouldn’t have caught if they weren’t alone in the same room. He drags the chair he was sitting over to the front of the couch and sits back down, a small metallic box on his lap, right in front of Yuri.

“Well, lucky for you it’s happening now.” Otabek stretches out a hand towards Yuri and he has to stop himself from jumping at the near-contact. Fuck, when did he become such a pussy when it came to crushes? It’s only made worse, because Otabek’s hand tugs at the hem of his hoodie and his next words are, “This needs to come off, though.”

Yuri has to physically will his blood from rushing to his face and turning it beet red.

_He needs to get to your stitches, idiot!_ He tells himself as he carefully pulls the hoodie over his head, avoiding movements that strain his wound. _He isn’t trying to get you naked for any other purpose._

As he lays his hoodie down on the couch next to him and starts peeling off the bandage, another thought makes its way into Yuri’s head: _He could if he wanted to, though._

Yuri slaps himself mentally and frowns, embarrassed by his own mind. Otabek seems to notice it though, and probably misinterprets it, because he stretches his hands out to stop Yuri’s as he unwraps the bandage and says, “Let me help.”

He stands still as Otabek carefully unwraps the bandage from him, finally revealing the nasty red scar on a slash across the left side of his stomach. It looks like it’s healing okay, and it better be since Yuri has been tending to it just as instructed every single day, which has been a pain in the ass. The small cut on the side of his shoulder had been a much smaller affair, had closed up in no time with very little care.

Otabek’s hands hover just above the scar, lightly touching around it with his fingertips but making sure that he isn’t pressing too hard or hurting Yuri. Every touch still elicits a grimace from Yuri though, the phantom fear of pain making him react unconsciously.

“It’s healing nicely,” Otabek says and nods after examining the scar for a few seconds. Yuri breathes out a sigh of relief. Thank fucking God. “You will still have a scar, but if you take proper care of it it should fade nicely.”

Yuri hums in response and waits patiently as Otabek gets his tools out from the small metallic box on his lap.

“Taking out stitches doesn’t hurt like getting them done,” he says as he holds a pair of scissors in one hand and a pair of tweezers in the other. “But it still feels pretty weird, so.”

“Right,” Yuri says, stone-faced as Otabek wipes the scar area with alcohol as gently as possible. “Like that’s the first weird thing I’ve ever felt. I think getting stabbed felt pretty weird too.”

Otabek laughs under his breath and Yuri suddenly finds himself treasuring the sound, wanting to hear more of it.

They stay quiet as Otabek goes through the stitches methodically, cutting the thread and pulling it out section by section. It _does_ feel pretty weird, feeling something being pulled out of your body, but Yuri was also one of those kids that threaded thread through his palm and then pulled on it for fun, so the sensation is actually just a little bit nostalgic.

Being very careful to not look up from Otabek’s hands as they work, Yuri says in a quiet voice, “Hey, thank you for, you know…” He watches Otabek’s hands stop as soon as the words are out of his mouth and he gulps. He can’t say that to his face, so looking down at hands it is. “Saving my life. That was… nice of you.”

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Yuri wants to smack himself in the forehead. He knows he’s not good with words, but he never knew he was a fucking idiot at them. A beat passes in silence and Yuri’s cheeks are filling up and up with blood by the millisecond. He’s about to open his mouth to say something along the lines of _forget it_ simply to break the silence, but Otabek’s hands start working on the stitches again and Yuri sighs in relief.

“I didn’t…” Otabek starts and _then_ Yuri does look up at him, glaring. Otabek seems to get the message instantly, as his expression turns just the slightest bit sheepish. “It was nothing. We didn’t want to lose you.”

_We?_ Yuri wants to ask, but he bites down on his lip instead.

Otabek is the one that lowers his eyes this time and at this angle Yuri can see that the tips of his ears and his nape are blushed red and _oh no, that’s adorable_.

“I… wouldn’t have forgiven myself if I didn’t even get to know you like I wanted before you died,” he says and his voice is quiet, like he’s confiding a secret to Yuri. Yuri thinks maybe he is.

Yuri feels the pull of the last stitch coming out of his body and he grimaces at the sensation, but quickly searches for Otabek’s eyes as he looks up from his work.

Fuck subtlety. He almost died, for fuck’s sake. He can’t take any chances anymore.

“Like you wanted?” Yuri gulps, and he sneaks his hands around Otabek’s neck slowly, giving him time enough to back out if he so wanted, but getting as close as possible without actually kissing him. “Is this how you wanted to get to know me?”

This close, Yuri can hear Otabek gulp and watch as his eyes rapidly switch from Yuri’s eyes to his lips, like he’s weighing his options. After a few seconds and when Yuri is ready to back off, apologize and run out, Otabek nods.

“Yeah. This is how.”

Yuri pulls him close, immediately pressing his lips against Otabek’s. He feels Otabek’s hands come up to his waist, ever so gentle, and hold him like he’s afraid to let go. They don’t kiss for very long, Yuri’s recovering body still not at his 100%, but they back away from each other panting and with spit-shiny lips.

Yuri looks at Otabek’s eyes and admires them, shiny with hope and excitement, a pool of liquid gold Yuri would love to drown himself in.

“By the way,” Yuri starts, lazily scratching and running his hands through the short hair at the nape of Otabek’s neck. “We never officially introduced ourselves. I’m Yuri.”

Otabek laughs because, yeah, they’ve done this all in the wrong order and the situation is ridiculous. “I’m Otabek. But you can call me Beka.”

“Oh.” Yuri turns the nickname around in his head for a moment. Then, he says it outloud, to see how it feels on his tongue, “Beka.”

He can tell, from what little signs of Otabek’s body language he’s learned so far, that he’s embarrassed because he breaks eye contact and the blush on the tips of his ears deepen. Yuri smiles, delighted.

“Beka,” he repeats. It fits just right in his mouth, a sound so easy to make it feels like it was made just for him to say. “I like it. My grandpa calls me Yuratchka, but that’s kind of a mouthful.”

Otabek seems to contemplate something for a moment, his thumb running distracting strokes on Yuri’s waist, and then says in perhaps the softest, most adoring tone Yuri has ever heard in his life, “Yura.”

He immediately blushes. How could he not? He’s been called Yura before, but it has never sounded like _this_. So sincere and heartfelt, like Otabek’s pulling this word right out from the deepest part of his chest.

Involuntarily, he hunches over to try and hide his blush, but this makes Otabek’s thumb stroke over the scar and Yuri hisses in response. Otabek, immediately worried, lets go of Yuri’s waist like he’s afraid he’s going to open the wound back up if he so much as grazes it.

“Sorry,” he rushes to apologize. “Did I hurt you?”

Yuri breathes through his nose to calm his brain down. It didn’t even _hurt_ , but his brain is somehow convinced somebody’s trying to stab him again.

“It’s okay,” Yuri says, lowers his hands to rest on Otabek’s shoulders and smirks up at him. “Scars are hot anyway, right?”

Otabek _giggles_ and Yuri spends a few seconds marveling at the sound. The corner of Otabek’s mouth turns up in a smirk and he looks from Yuri’s scar back to his eyes, his own teasing and mischievous.

“Yeah, I guess they kind of are.”

**Author's Note:**

> if you want to yell at me some more about otayuri or yoi in general, come find me at [my twitter](http://twiter.com/phylocalist)!


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